


Evermore, Your Eyes

by wanhedyke



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: (Mutual) Pining, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, an entirely self indulgent fic and i’m not even sorry, horny and yearn-y
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:13:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28235244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanhedyke/pseuds/wanhedyke
Summary: “it always has something to do with the eyes. the eyes, but evermore their eyes - because they don’t struggle to understand anything you do, instead, they already understand, sometimes, even without quite knowing yet.”or, clarke and lexa are both nursing broken (grieving) hearts of different extremities. they meet under less than conventional circumstances— right place, wrong time. that is, until they cross paths again, as though no time has passed, many months later. the encounter is possibly serendipitous on one end, and definitely purposive on the other.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin & Lexa, Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	1. Prologue

"how’s one to know?   
i’d meet you where the spirit meets the bones  
in a faith-forgotten land  
in from the snow  
your touch brought forth an incandescent glow  
tarnished but so grand"

ivy, taylor swift

* * *

_i. (prologue)_

The church was eerie. As eerie as it was cold and permeated with the faces of those who deserved to be somewhere much better. Hushed murmurs bounced between stained glass windows and plastic chairs scraped across pinewood flooring as strangers shuffled inside.

There should have been a solace found somewhere buried in the knowledge that Clarke was surrounded by people who were grieving, aching, just like her. But there wasn’t. Instead of solace laid a great expanse of devastation and a gnawing heaviness that seemed to only grow harsher with each passing moment.

This— a grief group meeting in a cold, broken-down church on a Saturday morning— was Clarke’s first venture into the world of grief recovery.

That day had marked two months since her father’s death. Two months since coming back to her hometown to watch her father’s grey body, packaged in a timber box, be lowered six feet under. Two months of staying with her mother in her childhood house to get away from the trials and tribulations of Manhattan life for a while, to rest and recuperate.

When Clarke had agreed to come back home, little in the way of community support groups had been a part of her plan. Nonetheless, here she was, as per her desperate mother’s imploration.

(“Please, honey. You need to talk about it. If you won’t open up with me, at least give the group a try.”)

Her parents had divorced a decade ago, and Abby had long ago stopped loving Jake the way she once had, accounting for her slighter grief, her ability to cope with the situation at hand stronger than that of Clarke’s. Although Jake’s death was highly foreseeable, given his sickness, and hardly came as a shock to the family, Clarke couldn’t see how anyone around her could be anything less than distraught at the loss. How anyone was able to manage.

“Hi, everyone.” The gentle timbre of the greeting momentarily deferred Clarke’s rather melancholic reverie. “Welcome back to Bereavement Anonymous. As most of you know, I’m Esme.”

“Hi, Esme,” the group responded in practiced synchronicity.

The woman, Esme, gave a warm smile. She looked kind, Clarke had noted. She was older, with a face that held a certain soft-hearted quality— the kind that suggested her to be the type of woman who would invite you in for a cup of chamomile tea and a chat about Jane Austen. Approachable. Gentle. Motherly.

“Now, before we get into today’s session... it appears a new face has graced the group today,” Esme continued, her gaze sifting through the group until it settled on Clarke. Esme’s statement was proceeded with 8 other curious sets of eyes casting their stare upon Clarke.

Playing for time, Clarke took the opportunity to evaluate the overall makeup of the group, counting there to be 8 others excluding herself and Esme. It was a fairly diverse demographic of people, though many of the faces gave Clarke the definitive impression that she was on the younger end of the _people who attend grief group_ spectrum.

There was one particular person who caught Clarke’s eye, in the midst of gauging just how out of place she was in the group. A woman. A brunette woman, who looked far too statuesque, too dignified, too _young_ , to ever be attending a Rochester grief group that one could only assume was fabricated for the widowed elderly that saturate small-town New York.

The sharpness that riddled the woman’s penetrating verdant gaze had been betrayed by the tenderness that tugged the corners of her lips into a smile. A modest but warm smile, one that communicated a soft knowing, a cautious understanding. There was a hint of encouragement that imbued the woman’s guise, too, that was further emphasised when the brunette tilted her head forward in silent persuasion.

Clearing her throat and lowering her gaze to her feet, Clarke felt feeble as she shifted in her plastic seat. “Hello,” she said weakly. “I’m Clarke.”

“Hi, Clarke,” the group once again vocalised in unison.

The harmony had been nice, the first time around. Endearing, one might go as far to say. But the second time around, when Clarke was personally subjected to the cult-like deliverance, she wasn’t sure she was such a fan.

Nonetheless, discomfort pushed aside in the name of courtesy, Clarke managed a meek upturning of her lips, in hope that the pseudo-appreciation would be enough for the group to let up on what felt like their extreme heed of Clarke’s every move.

Alas, Clarke could never be so lucky. “Thank you for joining us today, Clarke,” Esme began. “Why don’t you kick off our session for us by telling us a little bit about yourself? We usually like to introduce ourselves in the format of our name, where we’re from, who we're grieving, and what we hope to gain from the group.”

Right. Icebreaker. Of course. Because what else besides the oversharing of personal details with a bunch of strangers does a grief group entail?

Although Esme had provided her with a clear structure to follow— location, who, and what— Clarke was still at a loss for where to begin. How to begin, save for the contrasting simplicity of, “I live in NYC, but I grew up in Monroe County.”

When the weight of her dad’s death had been settled upon her shoulders for the last sixty-one days, never once leaving the confines of her own mind, not even to make a feature in dinner table conversations with her mom or to be emblematically laid onto a blank canvas with the succour of oil paints and Clarke’s artistic incline, how could she be expected to express it in a sentence under the gaze of nine strangers?

At the shortfall of Clarke’s response, Esme tactfully interjected. “That’s alright, Clarke. Perhaps it would help if someone offered to introduce themselves to you, first. Any takers?”

A few steady hands were raised at the request. Whether they were offering for Clarke's benefit or for the sake of Esme’s sanity (bless the old woman's patient heart), Clarke wasn’t sure. She didn’t mind either way. She was indebted to the owners of all hands raised, no matter their intent, for their willingness to take the heat and vulnerability off her for a moment, to instead place it upon themselves.

One of the raised hands belonged to the young brunette woman. Evidently, she was not only the possessor of a pretty face, but of a kind manner, too.

Nodding her head in the direction of said woman, Esme smiled gratefully. “Alexandria, let’s start with you. We always love to hear from you.”

Alexandria. God, even her name was eloquent.

At the prompt, Alexandria stood up, mirroring Esme’s smile, though directing it toward Clarke as she voiced her next words. “Hello, Clarke. And everyone else, of course. I’m Alexandria. But most people call me Lexa.”

“Hi, Lexa,” the group had chorused. Clarke joined in that time, out of sheer manners, because it had felt as though the woman was speaking directly to her.

“I live in the city, too, actually. Manhattan native, but I drive up here every now and then to see my grandmother, beautiful Esme, here,” the brunette paused briefly to gesture casually toward the older woman. And, oh. That made more sense. That this beautiful, refined woman wasn’t there to actively participate. She was too young, too high-class to ever be in a state of bereavement. She was there to accompany a beloved family member. “...and to come to grief group. I lost someone special to me, too, as most of you know. A couple of years ago, now. Her name was Costia. She was my bride-to-be.”

There wasn’t enough willpower in the world for Clarke to have prevented the way her mouth fell open in mere bemusement, because... that’s not what she was expecting. Not at all. Lexa had looked barely fresh out of college, surely not old enough to have ever even been in a committed relationship, let alone to be a widow. For a couple of years. Jesus.

Despite her state of incredulity, Clarke’s heart ached. For Lexa. For everyone in the church. Because, god, nobody deserves this. Life is cruel. So unfairly and unabashedly cruel.

“Luckily, I had an incredible safety net to fall back to in the early days of my mourning. Grandma. So I stayed with her for a while. Went to every single group meeting for a few months, till I was ready to go back home. Come back every once in a while to check in with old grandma Esme here, make sure she’s not getting into too much trouble,” Lexa explained, eliciting a few low chuckles from the group. “And, of course, I come back to group if I’m in a low place. And that’s me, I guess. I’m doing alright.”

At that, Lexa bared a conclusive nod and an encouraging twitch of her lips in Clarke’s direction before taking her seat, running her hands over her knees.

“Thank you, Alexandria,” Esme acknowledged graciously, with a smile that reached her eyes. “Now, would anyone else like to share a bit about themselves?”

Whether or not Lexa’s little self-introduction was a bid at giving Clarke a little push of encouragement, Clarke took it as an incentive and decided to take a gamble. So she raised her hand, cleared her throat when Esme clapped her hands together and gave her a prompting look. She didn’t stand, already inundated with overwhelm at the feel of all eyes being settled on her, expectant and waiting.

“My dad,” she started, wincing at the cracks that fragmented her voice in embarrassing betrayal. “Um— he died, two months ago. Cancer. He was my best friend. I’m here because my mom thinks it’ll help to talk about it. Especially with the holidays just around the corner, and all.”

Her gaze darted to the floor as she expelled a concluding exhale. Her introduction, brief as it was, left her feeling raw and vulnerable, like she was being picked into pieces at the hands of every person that surrounded her.

“Thank you for sharing, Clarke,” Esme said gently. “We’re glad you’re here today. And, actually, you raised a good point, there, about the holidays. I was thinking that was something we could discuss in today's session."

From that, conversation unfurled within the circle, but Clarke wasn’t really paying much mind. Instead, her eyes studied the many faces within the group. She took note of the fact that each person, herself included, shared one particular quality— vacancy. An unexplainable but indisputable sense of hollowness.

Clarke got it. She understood.

**—**

When the session finally wrapped up, Clarke made her way to the end of the church where a pitiful make-do coffee and cake stand had been set up. She grabbed a mug and poured herself a cup of filter coffee, her mind somewhere else entirely as she filled it to the brim.

“Could you pour me one, too?”

Turning her head to see who the voice belonged to, Clarke blinked. The gears of her brain began to over-run when she was faced with curious emerald eyes studying her and a hand gesturing to the coffee pot in her hands. Clarke froze for a moment as she took the brunette in, for she looked impossibly more beautiful close up— brown curls flowing loosely around her shoulders to her chest, high cheekbones to compliment plump red lips and a cutting jawline. Height wise, the woman had a few inches on Clarke, donning black Oxfords that only added to her grandeur, her effortless presence.

“Just black is fine,” Lexa added softly, likely to quell the unforeseen silence, and possibly to yank Clarke from her brooding.

Clarke only nodded, finishing pouring her own before grabbing a fresh mug for Lexa.

As Clarke poured Lexa's drink and handed it to her, Lexa smiled, clearing her throat. “I’m really sorry about your dad,” the brunette inevitably stated. Clarke couldn't have blamed her for the anticipated conversation starter— what else are two strangers whose only clear mutual attribute is grief supposed to talk about?

“It’s alright,” Clarke croaked out through the golf ball-sized lump that had crystallised in her throat. She took a sip of her coffee before speaking up again. “He was sick for a really long time, so.”

At that, Lexa nodded. Her mouth twitched in a way that suggested she had something more to say, but she fell short, settling on a small smile instead.

After a few beats of silence, Clarke spoke up. “I’m sorry about your partner,” she said honestly, offering a gentle look. “Your story touched me. I’m glad you have Esme.”

Lexa hummed in agreement. It was quiet for a moment before she responded. “You looked kind of... I don’t know. Surprised, when I was speaking,” she remarked curiously.

“Oh,” Clarke breathed, pursing her lips apologetically as she pondered upon the most appropriate way to respond to Lexa’s query. “Sorry. It’s just... you look young. Like, really young. I guess it just took me by surprise when you said wife.”

“Fiancé.” Lexa’s correction was soft, carrying no hint of condescension or dismay.

“Right,” Clarke sighed, shaking her head in self-condemnation. “Of course. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry if I looked surprised, or like, confused. I—”

“It’s alright,” Lexa reassured, her sincere tone putting Clarke at ease. “People here often react like that. I’ve always assumed it was less to do with the age thing and more to do with the... _referring to my fiancé using female pronouns_ thing. So it comes as a relief that maybe that’s not always the case.”

It took a moment for the intimation of Lexa’s words to sink in.

“Oh, god, no,” Clarke rushed out, pausing to inwardly cuss herself out for her quick reaction when she caught Lexa’s nonplussed gaze. “Sorry. I just— I don’t want you to think it’s that. I’m bisexual, if that’s any consolation. I mean, it’s probably not. I don’t know why I told you that. I’m sorry.”

Clearly, Clarke’s little sharing stint had caused the floodgates to open for a plethora of other pieces of personal information that would probably be better kept to herself.

“Wow. You’re really good at this,” Lexa chuckled, her lips curling into a cocky smile.

It’s a good thing Clarke had swallowed her mouthful of coffee by the time she’d processed the insinuation of the words, or else she’d have unwittingly spat it out all over Lexa’s pearly white blouse in mere humiliation. “What? _No_. I’m not hitting on you,” she contended desperately.

Lexa’s obvious amusement grew tenfold at that, her plump lips stretching around her teeth in the most beautiful smile Clarke had ever seen. “I meant, you’re really good at conversation in general.”

Not with the aid of every bone, every nerve, every muscle, every cell in her body, could Clarke have prevented the emergence of the red blush that enveloped her face out of sheer self-disgrace.

“Jesus Christ,” Clarke sighed. After a few moments of blissful ignorance, she slapped a hand over her own mouth as she recalled where she was— a Catholic church. Lexa laughed softly from beside her, shaking her head in fond amusement. Clarke would’ve slapped the woman for the nerve of it all, if she hadn’t been so damn pretty.

“It’s okay, Clarke. I’m glad you shared that with me.”

She didn’t miss the euphonic way her name had rolled off the brunette’s tongue, how she clicked the ‘k’ with an almost practiced ease. Nor did she miss the way Lexa’s gaze had softened impossibly further, though the gravitational force of her eyes was still strong enough to keep Clarke grounded, somehow, even as she felt the ground loosening beneath her feet.

Tightening her grip on her mug of coffee, Clarke swallowed. “What do you do? Back in the city?”

“I write,” Lexa explained, irritatingly ambiguous. “Freelance, so... anything, really. I like it.”

“Cool,” Clarke responded lamely, “I like writing. I mean, I don’t do it. But I like reading things people write.”

The answer was uncooperative, awkward at best, but Lexa seemed satisfied enough to continue carrying the conversation on her shoulders. “Yeah?” She prompted, “So, what _do_ you do?”

“I’m an artist,” Clarke stated simply, as equally as cryptic as Lexa’s words had been. “I paint.”

Lexa nodded at that, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. “Cool,” she copied Clarke’s earlier vapid reply. Clarke couldn’t help but shoot her a playful glare, to which she got a low snigger in response. “What medium?”

“Oils, mostly.”

Alongside a thoughtful hum, Lexa took a brief cessation, as if deeply considering and contemplating Clarke’s two-worded candid response. “I had a good friend at college when I was doing my BFA in creative writing, who was an acrylic painter. Always complaining about those god forsaken arrogant oil painters.”

“I mean, they weren’t wrong about that,” Clarke shrugged, gesturing dramatically toward herself in caricature. “But I also used to have a friend in art school who’d always say, ‘ _oil painter love is a different kind of love._ ’ I don’t know what the fuck she meant, but I’m sure she was right.”

“I cannot attest to nor veto that theory due to lack of personal experience,” Lexa professed, before setting out on a satirical tangent. “But I wouldn’t mind testing it out, some day. Receiving that oil painter, Van Gogh type of love— melodramatic as fuck, but devoted. He cut off his ear and mailed it to a sex worker. Tell me that isn’t the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard.”

“Okay, stop,” Clarke laughed, shaking her head in pseudo-indignation. “You sound like such a fine arts student right now, gushing over troubled artists and their messed up eccentricities.”

Lexa laughed at the niche quip, and by god, was it the most beautiful sound Clarke had ever heard; soft and velvety but still hearty and genuine, all the same.

“I’d really like to see your paintings some day,” Lexa said softly. Behind her casual guise was a hint of vulnerability; Clarke could tell.

Clarke smiled. _Really_ smiled, coy but genuine, for the first time in what had felt like months. In what probably _was_ months. “We’ll see.”

Despite how little she and Lexa actually knew of each other, Clarke had felt an odd sense of comfort, standing there in the rickety old church, conversing with a strange woman about oil painter idiosyncrasies and art school antics, like a pair of old friends reuniting. Instant physical attraction pushed to the side, Lexa’s company, her dry wit juxtaposed by her gentle demeanour, had soothed Clarke. Her presence had resonated with Clarke, somehow.

For a stretch of time, a comfortable silence hung between the two as they supped from their coffees. They communicated wordlessly with timid moments of reticent eye contact and knowing smiles. It was small, but enough. Clarke was content to drown in viridescent eyes and let her mind wander.

“Do my eyes deceive me, or is my little Alexandria making friends at last?”

Esme’s voice pulled both Clarke and Lexa from their thoughts.

“Clarke, was it?” Esme queried as she reached out to cup Clarke’s cheeks, caressing her face in that affectionate manner only old women can. “A beautiful name to match a beautiful face. Gosh, look at you.”

Over Esme’s shoulder, Clarke could make out Lexa giving her an apologetic look, though Clarke didn’t mind the smothering one bit.

Dropping her palms from Clarke’s face, Esme sighed, expression consoling and kind. “I’m so sorry about your father,” she spoke. “It’s a really great thing you came to group today. I understand it can be difficult to talk about these things, especially so early on in the grief process, but opening up truly is the greatest thing you can do for your recovery.”

Clarke’s throat closed up at the mention of her dad, the wound still so raw, rendering her unable to respond verbally. She settled on a small hum and an appreciative smile, and Esme seemed to understand, giving Clarke’s shoulder a comforting rub before turning her attention to Lexa, who had taken a polite step back and settled on fumbling mindlessly with the rings on her fingers.

”Now, I hate to heckle a budding friendship, but the market shuts up shop at 1:00, and it’s just passed midday. We should head off,” Esme said with a smile, before looking back at Clarke and raising a finger in proposal. "Actually, Clarke, would you care to join us? We're just heading to the farmer's market down on Union. Our Saturday tradition. They have the loveliest baked goods."

And, _oh_. As much as Clarke appreciated the offer, she was scarcely holding onto her bearings from just conversing with Lexa for ten minutes— she wasn't sure moving from small talk to third-wheeling with Lexa and her grandmother was exactly the most conventional next step. When she met Lexa's eyes, once again wide in apology, she presumed her thoughts on the matter were shared. "You know, I better not. I should get home, help my mom with lunch. Thank you, though."

"Ah, very well," Esme nodded. "Well, thank you for coming today. It was great to meet you. I hope we see you again.”

"Likewise," Clarke smiled. She sucked in a breath before turning to Lexa. "You too, Lexa."

The brunette gave a meek upturning of her lips in response, eyes steadfast on Clarke to contrast the timid, almost hesitant quality of her subsequent words, "See you around?"

"Yeah," Clarke responded. "I hope so."

With that, Lexa and Esme made their way out, leaving Clarke to stand vacantly in the empty church. Waiting. Hoping.

She didn't see Lexa around. Not for a while. 


	2. Of Dom Pérignon and Anacreon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected encounter, one too many glasses of expensive champagne and a pain-au-chocolat closer.
> 
> (Or, back in the city, Lexa shows up to Clarke’s exhibition, nine months subsequent to their first encounter. It’s more than just a coincidental run-in. A date that isn’t really a date ensues, where pretentious art debates bring Clarke and Lexa a touch closer. An offer may or may not be made.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's this ~10k mother of a chapter, brought to you by my current state of boredom and (as a result of trying to quit nicotine) my yearning for a vice or a distraction of any kind.
> 
> also, the writing at the end of this chapter (in italics) is supposed to be one of lexa's pieces, which she writes _following _the events that occurred in this chapter. before i start writing from her pov later on, this'll be how you can get a glimpse into what's going on for her, sort of like an amuse-bouche for what's to come. enjoy <3__

& I walk in the timeless sadness of existence,  
tenderness flowing thru the buildings,  
my fingertips touching reality’s face,  
my own face streaked with tears in the mirror  
of some window—at dusk.  
  
My Sad Self, Allen Ginsburg

* * *

("Clarke?"

She's on her second glass of Dom Pérignon, listening to a pretentious Observer columnist talk nineteen to the dozen, when she hears it.)

It's the opening night of her latest exhibition. The small gallery is thronging with city dwellers, journalists, and artist contemporaries, knocking around and mingling idly. With the night drawing to a slow end, people come and go, some stopping by Clarke to make small talk or enquire about a particular piece, commenting on its hallmarks or trying to negotiate a less than reasonable price.

Outwardly, it would appear that Clarke is riding a wave of success. It’s not her debut exhibition, rather her second or third. Maybe fourth, actually. (She’s lost count over the years; life has been all but a mere blur since finishing her degree at Parsons, a tangle of forgettable faces and stuck up critics and linen panels and shades of phthalo blue and yellow ochre.) Of course, like anyone, Clarke flourishes under the attention, leans into the reverence of the connoisseurs and passerbys. She relishes in the promise of people liking and wanting her art, after so many years of being nullified and turned away.

(She has quickly learned that praise is just as addictive as any drug— the more you get, the more you need the next time to feel even half as worthy. No amount of exalting is ever enough. The high of veneration is one you never stop chasing.)

Inwardly, Clarke is lacking. Eleven months have passed since her dad’s death. She left Rochester and came back to the city when four months without her father had elapsed. She came to the resolve that the sentimentality of staying in her hometown was only weighing her down, further exacerbating the ache of her loss. Nevertheless, the grief has lingered like bad perfume, constant and gnawing. While things have gotten a shade easier over the months, each day a smidgen brighter than the last, things are still difficult. Her heart has formed a perpetual fist at the deprivation of a parent’s love. Her organs feel heavy as they long for normality.

(For love.)

So standing here, hearkening to a man whose name she doesn't even know (nor does she care to know), Clarke is miles away, willing for the night to finally wrap up. Until—

“Clarke?”

Uttered so gingerly, Clarke’s name has never sounded so idyllic. Curious, she peers over the shoulder of the man in front of her, and scans the room for a familiar face. And there she is. The woman from the grief group back home. The beautiful, elegant brunette. Alexandria— no, Lexa. Lexa from grief group. She’s there, at Clarke’s Chelsea exhibition, calling out Clarke’s name as if she’s more than a mere stranger she encountered once nine months ago, donning a white button up blouse and black slacks that give her legs for days. Her brunette hair frames her face and neck neatly, falling loosely past her shoulders. And she’s smiling, wide and fond.

_God, she’s even more beautiful than last time._

The columnist keeps prattling on about his takes on the exhibition, oblivious to Clarke’s blatant disinterest and distraction, until she swiftly interjects, “Sorry, excuse me.”

She brushes past the gangly man and through the crowd of strangers until she’s face to face with Lexa. Clarke realises, too late, that she’s not sure how she wants to greet her. Dumbly, she settles on a squeaky “Hi.”

“Hey,” Lexa grins, verdant eyes boring into Clarke’s. “This… this all looks great. You look great.”

Fingers tightening around the long stem of her glass, Clarke flushes. She wants to say so many things; _thank you,_ and _you look great too,_ and _it’s so good to see you_ and _how do you even remember my name?_ and _what the fuck are you doing here?_ being just a few, though she can’t get out even half a syllable.

Her mind races with questions. Did Lexa seek her out? Is that why she’s here? Did she know that the exhibition was Clarke’s? Was she even expecting to run into Clarke at all?

By the time she finally garners the resolve to form a full sentence, her efforts are futile. In the blink of an eye, an arm snakes around Lexa’s waist as a tall figure emerges from the crowd— a beautiful, auburn-haired woman establishes her presence, standing as close to Lexa as is physically possible. Definitely too close to be considered friendly.

“Oh my gosh, are you the artist?” the woman gushes, visibly tipsy as she lays her gaze upon Clarke. “Clarke Griffin, right? Your work is incredible. Lexa didn’t tell me you guys knew each other.”

“That’s me,” Clarke says, gaze flitting to Lexa for a bare millisecond in a silent question and then back to the other woman. “Thank you so much. I’m… I’m glad you like my work.”

Likely noticing Clarke’s vaguely perplexed state, Lexa swoops in like the paragon she is. “Clarke, this is Luna, my date,” she explains, hand pressing against the woman’s waist in emphasis. “And Luna, this is Clarke. Obviously. She and I met a while ago, back in Rochester. S’why I wanted to come tonight.”

And, god, Clarke doesn’t know what to think. Because on the one hand, Lexa has this beautiful, ethereal woman on her arm, and she’s her date, but on the other hand, Lexa chose to come to Clarke’s exhibition tonight, of all places, of all times. Lexa did seek her out. It doesn’t mean anything, Clarke knows— likely just that Lexa saw a familiar name on a flyer on some post on Franklin Ave advertising the exhibition and thought, _hey, why not_. Clarke’s heart still thrums warmly at the thought, nonetheless. Lexa thought of her.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Clarke smiles, offering a hand that Luna grasps swiftly in a handshake. While Clarke’s hand politely tends to Luna’s, her eyes linger elsewhere, scanning Lexa’s features until opal blue meets brilliant viridescence. “And it’s nice to see you, Lexa. I’m glad you came.”

“I’m glad I came, too,” Lexa concurs. “Your work… it’s amazing, Clarke. The whole exhibition took my breath away.”

She’s heard those two sentences, almost word for word, dozens of times tonight— from strangers, from friends, from prestigious critics and other artists. But, god, Lexa says them like she really means them, like she really gives a damn about what Clarke creates. And the feeling that that honest adoration evokes... it’s unexplainable. Unreal.

“Thank you,” Clarke manages softly. “Really. Thank you.”

Their colloquy is interrupted when Luna begins to slump against Lexa’s frame, almost folding into her in weariness. If it weren’t for Lexa’s strong clutch keeping her upright, the woman would have plummeted straight to the ground. Clarke’s insides twinge with jealousy. Whether she envies the woman’s drunken, blissful state or the fact she’s got Lexa’s arm wrapped around her waist and her tender fingertips pressed into her skin, Clarke isn’t sure. Both, probably. (The latter more so than the former.)

Giving Clarke a repentant look, Lexa tugs the woman closer until their bodies are flush. “I should probably get this one home,” she proclaims. “Just… I wanted to ask, would you want to grab a coffee someday soon?”

Clarke blinks dumbly. “With you?”

“Yes,” Lexa nods. Her courage seems to falter at Clarke’s query. “Is that— do you not want to? It’s okay if you don’t.”

“No. No. I mean, yes, I do want to,” Clarke insists, stumbling and staggering over her words ineptly. She blames her incompetence on the champagne, and not her undying inability to talk to beautiful women. She bites back a sheepish grin that surely doesn’t help her case at all. “I do. Really, that would be great.”

Luna is still clinging onto Lexa for dear life, though she appears to be entirely oblivious, or maybe just careless, to Clarke and Lexa’s interaction; her eyes have begun to droop as she presses herself further against Lexa.

“Okay,” Lexa smiles. “Does tomorrow work? There’s this really great place near the Whitney, on 15th—“

“Terremoto?”

“Yeah,” Lexa says conspiratorially. “How’d you know?”

Clarke shrugs. “A wild guess. It’s my favourite,” she explains. “My studio’s close, so… it’s my go-to for a good pain au chocolat most days.”

“Oh my god, exactly,” Lexa gushes, eyes dropping shut and her tongue poking out to wet her lips at the mention of the baked delicacies. “All their cabinet food is to die for. They’re just…” she cuts herself off to exhibit a chef’s kiss.

Grinning, Clarke’s part way through conjuring up a witty response when a strong arm wraps around her own waist, a pair of lips pressing against her earlobe and lingering for a moment too long, before murmuring a hushed, “There’s my Picasso.”

Clarke manages a meek smile, placing a hand atop the larger one against her stomach and giving it a soft squeeze, leaning back into the touch. She tilts her head up, placing a chaste, obligatory kiss against Finn’s lips. “Hey.”

“You disappeared on me,” he frowns, before his gaze settles on Lexa and Luna. “Who’s this?”

“This is Lexa. And her date, Luna.”

“Oh,” Finn says, eyebrows raised. “Date, huh? So you two are, like…” he pauses to smirk with a dramatic waggle of his eyebrows.

That earns him a slap across the arm from Clarke, swift and harsh. “What the _fuck_?” she hisses, incredulous.

“What? I’m just asking.”

Just as Clarke is about to reprimand him further, and give him a full-blown lecture on the hyper-sexualisation of sapphic women, Lexa cuts in. “It’s fine, Clarke,” she says with a chuckle. “Yes. I’m a lesbian. And Luna here, is…” she’s cut off by Luna sinking deeper against her and almost tripping over her own heels. “Well... heavily intoxicated, and in dire need of a ride home. So we’re going to head off now, if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” Clarke nods, cutting in before Finn can say anything. “It was really good to see you.”

“You, too. Was great to see the exhibition, as well,” Lexa smiles. “So… tomorrow for coffee? How does 11 sound for you?”

“Perfect,” she says softly. “I’ll see you then.”

* * *

Clarke wakes the following morning to cold lips pressed against the nape of her neck and a wandering hand caressing the flesh of her thigh. (Suggestive, not loving.) The July sun blares through a gap in the curtains of Clarke’s bedroom, scintillas of yellow and white permeating the otherwise sunless room and warming the skin of her bare back. Here, with a body lain beside hers in a sunlit room, Clarke should feel content.

Instead, she feels hollow.

The thing is, she doesn't mind Finn. One might go as far to say she enjoys his company— to an extent. To the extent of drunken nights and bad jokes and free cigarettes. Not to the extent of morning cuddles or slow summer kisses or sensual date nights or anything real.

They were, for lack of better words, set up by their parents. Her mother is good friends with Finn’s mother, and has been pleading with Clarke to go on a couple of dates with Finn for as long as Clarke can remember. (“You’re perfect for each other, Clarke. You’ll see.”) So, begrudgingly, before leaving Rochester to come back to the city, Clarke agreed this time around, promised her mother she’d get around to it. And she did. They’ve been on a few dates, which were average at best, and gauche and stiff at worst. Nothing special.

They’ve taken to a routine, though; they go on these dates and take each other to work related events and have sex sometimes, and in between the days that those things take place, they don’t speak. And that’s the way it is. Concise and matter-of-fact and perfectly adult.

When Clarke sits up, sitting on the edge of her mattress, her head throbs. Pulses. She sighs as she shuffles to the edge of the bed. She doesn’t attempt to stand up, knowing full well that any attempt to get to the bathroom without letting her hangover-induced vertigo get the best of her will be futile.

The same hungry hand that had been caressing her thigh earlier now reaches out and curls around her waist in a bid at pulling her back into bed. Another hand drags along her spine, slow and irritating. _Finn_ is irritating.

“Stop,” she whispers, shaking her head and swatting the hand away lightly. “Please. Sorry.”

He sighs, climbing out from under the duvet and sitting himself down on the edge of the bed, next to Clarke. He reeks of booze and cheap cigarettes, and Clarke grimaces, knowing she probably smells the same. She wants a shower. “What’s up? You didn’t have fun last night?”

“What? No. I did. The exhibition was great. I was really happy with it.”

“I’m not talking about the exhibition, Clarke. I’m talking about us.”

“Us?” Clarke murmurs. “Finn, I… there is no _us_.”

Finn frowns. “So last night was nothing? Again?”

“I don’t even remember it.” It’s half a truth, half a lie. Although the memory is blurry, Clarke is well aware of the events that took place after she left the gallery last night. In a muddled sequence, she recalls throwing back one too many vodka sodas and sharing sloppy kisses with Finn. Remembers dragging him back to her place in a fleeting state of arousal and need, remembers watching him fumble with the plastic wrapper of the condom, remembers waiting so long for him to put it on properly that by the time he’d finally done it, the buzz of the alcohol was wearing off and Clarke was struggling to even keep her eyes open.

“ _I_ definitely remember it,” Finn intimates with a smirk, and Clarke has to physically lock her throat up to prevent herself from responding with a bitter _of course you do, you cocky asshole, because I’m actually a good fuck, and you actually got off_.

Clarke sighs. “Can you leave? I have to get ready. I’m meeting a friend in Chelsea in an hour.”

“Okay,” Finn drawls. “Can we do this again, at least? How about I take you out to dinner next weekend? There’s that new Italian place on 9th. Colleague told me it’s bomb.”

Shaking her head, Clarke stands up and begins to get dressed, pulling on a pair of underwear and grabbing a hoodie from her laundry pile. “I don’t think I’m in the right headspace for this right now.”

“For what? Italian food?”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Don’t be thick. For dating. Or anything of the sort.”

Finn scoffs. “So that’s it, then? I take you on a bunch of dates, we bone a few times, and then two months into it you tell me you don’t want anything to do with me?”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Clarke says, finally meeting Finn’s eyes in the mirror of her vanity as she pulls her hair into a bun. “I just… I thought I might have been ready. But I’m not.” She wants to add a blunt _I’m also not into you, at all_. She refrains, for the fear that Finn’s wits are hanging on by a fraying thread.

“I can respect that,” Finn begins, though his tone promises a catch. “I just wish you’d have told me earlier, is all. You kind of lead me on.” _There it is._

“Please go, Finn,” Clarke states bluntly. She knows it’s harsh. Knows she’s being cold. It feels necessary, though, to be this direct. Like it’s the only way Finn will understand.

And it works. At Clarke’s quiet command, Finn drags his lanky frame from the bed and gathers up his clothes, pulling on his jeans and tugging his shirt over his head in an indignant haste, as if to make a silent stand against Clarke. If only she were invested enough to care.

It would be a lie for Clarke to say she feels anything short of relief when Finn makes his way out of her room, when she hears the door of her apartment click shut. She flops back onto her bed in a heap, letting herself mope before she remembers what today is. She has a date. A date that's not really a date, with Lexa. And she can't go looking like this. Lexa's too pretty.

So she drags herself, limbs heavy, to the shower, where she scrubs until her skin is raw.

**—**

It’s warm in the city. Muggy and sticky and warm. As always, the smell of secretions and day-old alcohol lingers through the gutters and along the sidewalk as Clarke makes her way through the streets of Chelsea. The neighbourhood is nice, albeit not immune to the reckless antics of drunk New Yorkers and heedless visitors. When she reaches west 15th Street, she basks in the shade that the sepia apartment blocks and the brick townhouses provide, the way they tower over her like some transcendental beings, although they are all but lifeless pieces of architecture. The way they stand so tall, indestructible and dauntless in the face of decades of battering and bruising. Clarke’s sure, if buildings could speak, they would offer invaluable pieces of wisdom.

When she arrives at Terremoto, a swanky ten minutes late, Lexa’s already there. Because of course she is; she’s beautiful and cultivated and punctual. Clarke’s a little sloppy and graceless and often behind schedule.

(She _is_ an artist, to be fair— she was never destined to be put together.)

Lexa’s already flashing her a warm smile from across the cafe, and Clarke feels it in her bones— feels the way the warmth stretches across ten feet from Lexa to her, the way it seeps through her skin and settles into her bones. As she approaches the table, she takes note of the twin pastries on the table that she can only assume are freshly baked pain au chocolats.

“You didn’t have to get me breakfast,” Clarke says shyly as she takes her seat.

“Oh,” Lexa utters, wide-eyed. “Actually, these were both for me.”

Clarke blinks. She can feel her cheeks mantling already, and she’s a mere second from bolting out of the cafe in sheer humiliation before Lexa bursts into laughter, her own face glowing pink in amusement, green eyes watering up as she squints in her state of hysterics.

(Clarke is almost upset that her first time witnessing Lexa in hysterics is at her own expense. She’d be fawning over the sight, if she weren’t so personally victimised.)

When Clarke doesn’t respond, Lexa pauses her little comedy stint to reassure, “I was just kidding, Clarke. Of course it’s for you.”

“Why would you do that to me?” Clarke gripes, not letting her relief bleed through her tone. She expels an exasperated breath, a fond incredulity bubbling in her chest.

“I’m sorry,” Lexa titters between breaths, running her fingertips under her eyes to wipe away a few almost-tears as she shakes her head. “But… your face. It was so worth it.”

Huffing indignantly, Clarke pulls her plate closer to herself, shooting Lexa a death glare before digging into the pastry, letting out a delighted hum as the taste hits her tongue.

“Wait, so this is your breakfast?” Lexa frowns after taking a healthy bite from her pastry. “Clarke, it’s nearly midday. This should be… a pre-lunch, post-morning-snack snack, at the very least.”

Clarke flushes at Lexa’s gentle display of concern. “I know. I’ve usually had, like, two full course meals by this time of day,” she exaggerates, pausing to wipe the outside of her lips with a napkin. “I had a weird morning. Didn’t really have time for breakfast, so you’re a saint for this one. Seriously.”

Instead of prying, Lexa simply nods and lets a comfortable silence hang between them for a few minutes while they indulge in the delicacy that is French baked goods.

“I know I said it last night, but your art is incredible, Clarke,” Lexa says as she picks at some of the crumbs of pastry that linger on her plate. Her eyes are wide in awe, as if she is completely absorbed in Clarke’s art at this very moment as she sits in this unrefined coffee shop. “I’m no painting connoisseur, but the way you capture the essence of the female form and womanhood with such a limited palette, the way that the narratives of the pieces are left so open-ended. I loved it. The whole exhibition.”

Again, Clarke is rendered speechless by Lexa’s adoration, her ability to say just the right words. Clarke tends to get irritated when people try and put words in her mouth by saying something like _oh, I loved how you tried to convey this message_ , or _oh, you executed this idea really well_ , because they almost never get it right. (Art is subjective, of course, and left up to personal interpretation, but the comments are still irritating at times, nevertheless.) But when Lexa does it, she gets it right. Puts words to the art that Clarke, lacking in the words and literacy department due to her tunnel-vision focus on visual art, never could. Never _would_.

“Was that too much?” Lexa asks after a few more beats of silence. “I know I probably sound like I’m rhapsodising, or like, gushing. I’m s—”

“No,” Clarke rushes out before Lexa can fully execute her redundant apology. “It’s not too much, Lexa. I think I want to hear you gush over my work some more, actually. It’s good for my ego,” she laughs. “What was your favourite piece?”

“I loved them all, seriously. But there was one in particular. I forget the name, but— the woman strewn across the sofa, where it feels like she’s looking right into your eyes, and there’s the silhouetted figure bringing her flowers. I couldn’t quite decipher the narrative, and I think that’s what I liked about it. Very mystifying. It stuck with me.”

Clarke laughs softly. _Such a writer,_ she thinks. Aloud, she says just as much.

“How do you mean?” Lexa questions with the lift of an eyebrow.

Again, she wants more words. Clarke’s never been very good with words.

Briefly, though, she ponders on an article, or something of the sorts, that she once read in the Times. Something about how, while most artists can have a sketch pad with them, they still need a space of their own in order to make their art happen— and how writers don’t need that, because their creating space is in their heads, and it can be as large as the universe or as small as a molecule. It doesn’t have to be concrete. Entire worlds are the canvases, stretched out to infinity. In this moment, Clarke wishes she could climb inside Lexa’s brain and see for herself what infinity looks like. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Infinity does not materialise. Not for a writer. At least, not in that way. Not in the way an artist could ever understand.

She thinks, maybe if she sticks around for long enough, Lexa will let her understand in what way infinity does materialise for a writer. Maybe they could find a medium.

None the wiser, Clarke is unable to verbally express the words and concepts and ideas that have jumbled inside her brain. She wishes she could paint it. “For you, it’s all about the narrative. It’s about being able to put words, or a story, to the painting. But that’s the point of it being a painting, not a novel or a prose or a poem. It’s a picture. It’s not words.”

“You can put words to almost anything, though,” Lexa challenges, and provocation riddles her tone as heavily as it glints in her eyes. “Behind all forms of art is language, of some form. So enlighten me.”

“ _Courtesan_ ,” Clarke identifies. “That’s the name of the piece, and that’s the only word I could use to describe or explain it. It’s one of my favourites, too. I didn’t really have a specific story in mind while I was painting it, because that’s not my workflow, but the main idea was the humanisation and… invigoration, I guess, of sex workers. And of the feminine form as a whole. It’s meant to be a statement, in a form so undramatic it becomes dramatic. Like, here’s this woman, who, in my mind, is a sex worker, entirely nude, with a generous, well-rounded body, and she’s staring right into the eyes of the viewer. It’s almost confrontational, you know? She’s entirely unabashed and immodest, and that’s the way it should be. It’s not a sufficiently high-minded piece— it just is what it is, and that’s the narrative.”

Lexa smiles faintly, like a high school devil’s advocate as she leans back in her seat. “I bet you hate naming your paintings.”

“Yeah. Bane of my existence,” Clarke gripes. “That’s why I barely do it. I feel like such a halfwit though, running through my pieces with collectors and having to say _I call this one Untitled,_ over and over again, like it’s a fucking mantra. The phrase _use your words_ was invented to patronise me to no end.”

“I don’t know,” Lexa says. “You seem to be using your words perfectly to me. I like listening to you talk.”

The wording is suggestive, coy, with a million different layers Clarke doesn’t have the mental aptitude to peel away. She recalls the woman on Lexa’s arm last night— her date, who is also possibly her girlfriend, which makes turning this coffee date into anything past a simple act of platonic formality a little improper.

So she responds the best way she knows how; sardonic and taunting, with just a hint of a real question. “You’re sure that’s not just because I have an incredibly sexy voice with an irresistible rasp, and you’re gay?”

“You’re awful,” Lexa chides, though her admonishing masquerade is betrayed by the fondness in her tone. “But, yes. I’m sure the esthetics play a part.”

“ _Esthetics_ ,” Clarke parrots, letting the word roll off her tongue in teasing experimentation, trying to brush past the coquettish undertones of Lexa’s words. “Tell me, Sappho, what is the difference between an esthetic and an aesthetic?”

“There is none.”

“I’m seriously asking,” Clarke cavils.

“Yeah, and I’m seriously answering. There is none,” she repeats. “It’s just alternative spelling. But, also, an aesthetician is sometimes different to an esthetician. The words aren’t always interchangeable. So, I don’t know. Maybe I’m lying. I’m going to go home and google this.”

“Ah,” Clarke raises an eyebrow. “The English language defeats the Goddess of Literature herself. Speaking of, now you’ve seen my paintings, and analysed them in literate form, when can I read your writing?”

“Take a girl out to dinner first,” Lexa scoffs. “We haven’t even reached first base and you’re asking me to pull a home run. Slow it down.”

“Okay, hold on. So you can see 24 of my most intimate paintings, but I can’t read _one_ of your pieces? How does that make sense? I feel like you’re dismissing the depth of my work.”

“You put your paintings out for anyone to see. You literally exhibited them. I don’t do that with my writing. At least, not most of it. That’s the difference,” Lexa disputes, and she’s visibly pleased with her vindication.

Clarke cultivates a plan. After a few moments of calculating, she pries, “What’s your last name?”

“It’s Woods,” Lexa states simply, like she’d been expecting the question. “You can google me. I just can’t promise that you’ll find anything more exciting than a cheap magazine prose or an article about the sixth stage of grief. ”

Shaking her head, Clarke expels a laugh. “You know, people who go out of their way to make themselves out to be enigmas are usually the least enigmatic people.”

If Lexa takes offense to the statement or carries any sense of indignation, she doesn’t show it. Clarke studies her closely, and doesn’t miss the way her demeanour changes, the way her gaze softens and the cockiness that had begun to riddle her features palliates quickly. They share a quiet, knowing smile. She’s not sure either of them know what it means.

She watches closely as Lexa’s jaw hinges in concentration, a furrow forming in her brow that suggests some sort of internal debate as she opens her mouth to speak. The words must get lost on their way out, though, because she pulls her mouth shut after a moment, instead settling on dragging out the silence. They stay like that for a while, quiet and content.

It isn’t until 15th Street begins to flood with working folk setting out on their lunch breaks and tourists begin to permeate the previously quiet cafe, that Clarke realises that it must be coming up to, if not already surpassing midday, and that her and Lexa must have been here for almost an hour.

(She tries not to take note of the way it hasn’t felt long enough. How, even as they sit here in silence, it still feels like they have so much more ground to cover, so much more to talk about and to debate. Tries not to plead the universe to give them more time, in whatever way.)

In a moment of confidence, Clarke speaks up. “Do you have somewhere to be after this?” At the shake of Lexa’s head, she smiles coyly. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

**—**

“How long have you and your girlfriend been together?” Clarke asks, swinging her arm idly beside Lexa’s as they make their way along 15th to Pier 57. They walk slowly, like they have all the time in the world. Their conversation had fallen short after stepping out of the café, and they had settled on communicating with knowing looks and tilts of lips.

“What?”

Clarke blinks. She thinks maybe Lexa didn’t hear her correctly, so she tries again. “The woman from last night at the gallery… Luna. How long have you been together?”

Lexa chokes on a laugh. “Oh, god. No. We’re not together. Luna’s just a friend.”

“Oh?” Clarke prompts. “Then why—”

“She’s my go-to date person,” Lexa explains. “She’s a good friend. Lets me drag her along to all these shows and events. Doesn’t complain, as long as there’s free alcohol. Just means I don’t have to go everywhere alone. But, yeah. Just a good friend.”

 _Oh_.

Sucking in a breath, Clarke deliberates on how to respond. “Well, you certainly pulled off the dating act quite well.”

“Your boyfriend seemed to think so.”

The comment throws Clarke off. For a brief moment, she cannot for the life of her decipher the context of Lexa’s words. And then she remembers— last night, with Finn. The things that he said.

She winces at Finn being referred to as her boyfriend, but she moves past the discomfort in order to clarify, “He’s… I’m not with him. Not like that.” She briefly considers expanding more on the situation, but she’s not sure Lexa is particularly interested in the current state of Clarke’s love life, so she refrains, leaving it at that.

The words hang in the hair for a moment, as though they formed a statement that will lead them into some unknown territory. Maybe they did. Maybe that’s what this is.

Neither of them speaks up again until they reach the beginning of the pier, where they pause at the railing to take in the view— of the Hudson River for Lexa, and of Lexa for Clarke.

“The Hudson River was one of the first things I ever painted, as a child,” Clarke says softly. “I would’ve been about three or four. My parents had been to NYC for their anniversary and came back with a bunch of photos, and I painted this one picture of the river. It was an awful painting, an insult to Mother Nature herself, but I was so proud of it. And my dad, he loved it. He had it on the wall of his office from the day it dried to the day he got sick and had to stop working.”

A sadness settles over them as the words are uttered, and Clarke instantly regrets bringing up her father; her stomach clenches and her eyes begin to sting as they threaten to leak, to burst from the pressure of withholding the pain of loss for so many months, having had no outlet bar a few blank canvases and the fibrous bristles of her brushes.

In betrayal, the floodgates have already opened, and Clarke is helpless to stop the tears from falling as they please. It stings, everywhere; behind her eyes, in her throat, her heart. It stings, like a needle to flesh or salt to a wound.

Clarke forgets Lexa’s there for a moment, until a finger is caressing her sunken lower eyelid, wiping away a stray tear. She blinks her eyes open, and through the blur of tears, Clarke can make out green eyes, comforting and tender as they stare into her own.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke manages through a sniffle.

Shaking her head, Lexa lets her thumb continue to drag softly across Clarke’s face, collecting the tears as they fall. “It’s okay,” she comforts. “It’s good to cry.”

Clarke laughs wetly, “It doesn’t feel good.”

“It helps, in the long run,” Lexa assures with a smile. “I would know.”

The words only shatter Clarke further as she remembers Lexa’s loss on top of her own. She chokes out a raw sob, leaning further into Lexa’s gentle touch. Each gentle trace against her skin communicates a billion different things at once, and Clarke can’t comprehend a single one. The timid touch fades for a moment, and Clarke almost wants to chase after it, but she’s quickly soothed when Lexa swaps the gentle caressing for a full-body hug.

Clarke instantly folds into the intimate touch, wrapping her arms around Lexa’s small frame as Lexa pulls her in. At first, it’s painfully sobering, because she realises how long it’s been since she’s been held, how long it’s been since she’s let someone hold her. How long it’s been since someone made her feel like they wanted to hold her. She expels a sigh that she feels has been trapped in her lungs for years as she sinks into the embrace, listens to the gentle hitch of Lexa’s breath and feels the soft crinkle of curls against her neck and the even softer hand against her lower back, rubbing soothingly, gently.

The embrace doubles as a silent ‘I’m here, it’s okay’ from both of them.

(It’s peculiar, to Clarke, how safe she feels here in Lexa’s arms— how understood and protected she feels in the embrace of a near stranger, no urge to pull away or to cower.)

They stay like that for a while, even as the sadness slowly peters out into a dull ache. “How do you move past it?” Clarke whispers into Lexa’s neck, not pulling away. Can’t— not yet. “The grief.”

She knows, in the back of her mind, it’s a futile question— Clarke’s of the firm belief that she never will move past it. That she will ache like this for the rest of her days.

Lexa audibly swallows. She’s quiet for a moment, before she murmurs into Clarke’s hair, “You don’t, really.” She pauses to take a shaky breath. “I don’t think it’s about moving past it. I think you just learn to live with it, because life goes on.”

**—**

An hour later, Clarke and Lexa are seated on a bench at Hudson River park, heads tilted up in awe as the sun blares through the canopy of trees above them. Tourists and visitors stroll past, basking in the radiance of the New York sun, while families lay out picnics and games of frisbee and soccer across the wide expanse of grass.

Somewhere between watching a young child prance through the grass and a downward glance, Clarke realises that she and Lexa are seated close enough that their hands are nearly grazing. She suddenly becomes hyper-aware of how close Lexa’s pinky rests to her knuckles, and she feels the tingles in her fingers all the way up her arm, through her chest to her spine and down to her toes. For the fear that the silence and the surge of magnetic pull will leave her helpless to stop herself from reaching out and grazing Lexa’s knuckles, Clarke shifts her hand away slightly, under the pretence of rousing conversation.

“Where did you study for your undergrad?” Clarke asks. “The day we met, you mentioned your BFA.”

“You’re curious if we were ships in the night?” Lexa smiles, shifting her gaze from the view and back to Clarke. Clarke can't help but smile at Lexa's hunch, her intuition towards what Clarke was angling at; whether her and Lexa maybe rode the same A train, or shared an elective, or passed one another on campus. “I went to NYU. Majored in creative writing, fresh out of high school.”

Clarke hums. “How old are you?”

“You’re forward,” Lexa derides, but any hint of indignation in her tone is betrayed by the fondness that tugs at the corners of her lips. “Twenty four. Twenty five as of a couple of weeks, though. You?”

“Twenty five,” Clarke says. “What day is your birthday?”

Lexa is silent for a moment, as if weighing up the pros and cons of divulging such information, as if it’s some grand secret. “Are you going to try to find my horoscope in the Post or plan a surprise birthday party for me, or something?”

“You overestimate me,” Clarke laughs. “I’m going to wish you a happy birthday on some day over the next couple of weeks, and I’d like for it to be the right day. Is that so bad?”

Tongue probing at the inside of her cheek in consideration, Lexa sighs. “It’s the 21st,” she says. “I don’t really celebrate it anymore.”

Clarke’s brows knit together in a frown. “Okay, I understand not celebrating Christmas or Easter. Or even Valentines. Because, I mean, fuck organised religion and fuck love, but… your _birthday_?”

She regrets the words the second they slip from her mouth. Lexa’s eyes flash with something unreadable— something despondent that Clarke can’t quite put a finger on, but something that promises some kind of bad birthday connotation. A trauma, or a loss of some description, maybe. Clarke wants to pry, to understand, to comfort, to make up for her insensitivities. She doesn’t, though.

A meek but sincere “I’m sorry,” is all she can manage.

“It’s okay.”

The tension hangs over them like a stormcloud for several long minutes, and Lexa’s expression gives nothing away as to what she’s thinking, save the continued subtle wringing of thumbs.

And then Lexa speaks. The comment is timid, hesitant, so quiet it could easily be missed— but it isn’t. “I really like hanging out with you.”

“I like hanging out with you, too.”

Clarke’s breath hitches when she feels the weight of another hand atop her own, the unexpected pressure of another’s gentle touch. She looks down to see long fingers softly grazing her knuckles, and then back up to see verdant eyes staring into her own set of blues.

“To answer your earlier question,” Lexa begins softly, dropping her gaze down to where her hand still softly caresses Clarke’s. “About grief… I do think that a part of it is about learning to live with it. But it’s not necessarily about learning to live with the _sadness,_ at least not forever. I think you do live with the sadness for a while. And then I think that a day will come where you wake up, or you take a breath, and you feel different. And, I mean, it's not necessarily a flip of the blinds and just letting the light in, you know? But, maybe you’ll be having a conversation or doing something that triggers the thought of the person, and you’ll realise that it doesn’t hurt as much to think of them, or to hear their name, or to remember that they’re gone. You just… you do those things. You think of them, or you hear their name, or you remember that they’re gone, and it’s okay. And of course it still hurts, but… the grief sort of morphs into a part of you, in a sweet way. Like a lingering touch.”

The words, as candid as they are, carry a sense of ambiguity, as does the soft touch and Lexa’s timid gaze as Clarke meets it once again. Lexa looks paper thin fragile, but somehow still unwavering and assured as her eyes are steadfast on Clarke.

Helpless to find the words to express the way her heart is swelling within the thrall that is her ribcage, Clarke turns to her side slightly, angled enough to place her vacant hand on top of Lexa’s and squeeze. “Thank you.”

**—**

Hours fly by, and before they know it, sundown is approaching and the Chelsea streets have begun to subdue, the masses thinning out and palliating as slowly as the rays of sun that peek through the gaps between the buildings that line the street. Clarke and Lexa have settled on taking a slow stroll together back to their respective homes, Lexa insisting on walking Clarke back to her place before setting off to her own apartment. They exchange numbers as they walk, mindlessly conversing and exchanging bad jokes and hearty laughs.

“This is me,” Clarke says as they stop outside the tall brick building that bears her small studio space. 

Lexa blinks up at the building, which outwardly resembles an office block or a structure of chambers, more than anything. “This is where you live?”

“It’s rude to judge people’s homes, Lexa,” she chides teasingly without any real recourse. “But, no. It’s just my studio. I rent out a coworking space in the building. I live down the street, but my apartment’s small, and my landlord has a thing about me getting paint on the walls, so… yeah. I do spend more time here than at my apartment, though. My friends would say I basically live here.”

“Oh, wow,” Lexa says, eyes wide. “It’s so cool that you have your own space.”

Clarke nods in agreement, pointing up to the window that indicates her studio. “I’m up there, on the eighth floor. I get a view of the river and everything. I love it.” She pauses for a moment, and watches Lexa closely before clearing her throat, smiling softly. “Do you want to maybe come inside and see?”

“Of course I do,” Lexa says shyly, before she rushes to make a case. “Only if you want me to, though. I don’t want to intrude. I know that art studios can be quite pers—”

“Lexa, it’s fine,” Clarke adjourns. “It is a private thing, yes. But I trust you.”

At that, Lexa’s gaze softens impossibly further, like she understands the weight of Clarke’s words, as if she can hear the unspoken omen that they carry. “Okay,” she says gently. “But only because I could never pass up the opportunity to look at paintings of naked ladies.”

An exasperated fondness bubbles inside her chest at Lexa’s words, even as she gives the brunette a gentle shove. “I don’t _just_ paint naked women, you know,” she scoffs, tone riddled with pseudo-offense, before grabbing Lexa by the wrist and tugging her into the building. “Come on. Let me show you I’m not a complete perv.”

With painting, many of Clarke’s pieces never see the light of day. In the studio, she folds herself into the process, playing with the deathless effects of colour and tone and space. But with many of her pieces never being brought past the threshold of her studio, never to be seen by the outside nor by the eyes of others, a large portion of Clarke’s art fails to reach its full potential due to the shortfall of one key element— it never gets the chance to interact with direct light, only catching hindered glimpses and hampered scintillas through the wide windows when the sun crosses the west horizon. Figuratively and literally, so much of Clarke’s art lacks _light_. 

(Without the light, though, Clarke is able to hide and withhold so much of herself, so much vulnerability. The pain and the heartbreak and the hurt that would otherwise seep through the cracks or shine through the colours, is sheltered by a silhouette of darkness.)

Truthfully, bringing Lexa into her studio feels like Lexa _is_ the light. And maybe Clarke is the canvas. Allowing, _welcoming_ Lexa into one of the most intimate areas of her life is sobering and terrifying and exhilarating all at once— because Lexa is the first person she has ever allowed into her studio. Into her space. 

The studio is an artist’s space in every sense. It’s spacious, yet an undeniable mess. The floor is scattered with filled sketchbooks and indelible paint stains, while the walls are covered in concept drawings and older paintings and pictures. A handful of easels are placed sporadically throughout the room, some of which are occupied with canvases, others of which are left vacant. Finished pieces are leaned against the back wall— large linen panels displaying detailed studies of entwined hands, cotton canvases laid with distorted, abstract portrayals of the feminine form, wood panels covered with emotive depictions of love and loss through disrupted human embrace and touch.

The platforms of Lexa’s shoes rap against the wooden floors as she walks slowly into the room, marvelling in awe. “It’s amazing, Clarke.”

“It’s a _mess,”_ Clarke corrects with a small laugh, in lieu of expressing any semblance of gratitude for Lexa’s gentle compliments. Her eyes follow Lexa timorously as the brunette gapes softly, staring in veneration, pointing out a few details of some of the pieces, commenting deftly on Clarke’s use of colour or shadow or composition.

After a minute of taking in a few of the smaller pieces, Lexa pauses in front of Clarke’s largest easel, which upholds a canvas laid with the dark image of a naked, feminine figure, their body defined by wide strokes of reds and pale beiges, tinged with blues and yellows to give the effect of shadow. The subject, whose body only visibly stretches along the canvas as far as the top of their neck, has their back arched, ribs illuminated with tones of red, and their left hand groping their breast, defining the tone of the piece. In case of any doubt, the subject’s right hand is placed much lower, past a plush abdomen, where it disappears suggestively beneath a blanket, placed into motion by quick brush strokes that indicate movement beyond what the eye can comprehend, but very much within the boundaries of what the mind can comprehend.

To put it simply, Lexa is eyeing one of Clarke’s more erotic pieces.

“This one is… nice,” Lexa murmurs after a few moments of silence, biting into the supple flesh of her bottom lip. Clarke doesn’t miss the pinky hues that dust the brunette’s cheeks as she takes in the piece in front of her. “What’s it titled?”

“Self portrait,” Clarke deadpans.

The statement is fabricated, to an extent. For Clarke, the use of references (outside of small details and corrections offered by anatomy textbooks) is unnecessary, and often futile, in her experience. In terms of paintings, she works primarily from imagination and memory, rarely from life or direct imagery, and much less from herself. But with this particular piece, despite a lack of intention to capture any self-resemblance, each brushstroke seemed to cultivate more inevitable likeness between herself and the subject— both in terms of physical expression, and unspoken emotional expression and desire. 

She drags the moment out for a while longer, though, purely for her own amusement, at Lexa’s expense. The brunette’s cheeks are tinted with a scarlet red and her lips purse as if she’s been chewing a lemon rind, forming an expression touching on some mysterious combination of humiliation and intrigue. 

“I’m just kidding. It’s untitled,” Clarke says simply, watching closely as Lexa’s expression softens from near mortification to fond amusement. “Predictable, I know. I had a particularly hard time with naming this one. I think my paintings usually lie across, or define, the fine line between intimate expression and plain eroticism, and this one crosses that line a little bit. Or a lot. It’s a lot more… raw, than my standard piece. I had an even harder time than usual trying to put words to it. But I guess it doesn’t need a name, considering it’s never seeing past these four walls.”

“Anacreontic,” Lexa breathes.

“What?”

“Anacreontic,” she repeats, finally pulling her gaze from the painting and making eye contact with Clarke. “That’s what you should name it.”

“What does it mean?”

“It refers to the Greek poet, Anacreon,” Lexa explains, though Clarke is none the wiser for it.

“You’re going to need to give me a little more than that, Lexa,” Clarke gripes forlornly. “Have you already forgotten that literature is my weakest link?”

Lexa laughs, shaking her head in disdain. “His poems... they were dark, and beautiful. They dealt with the raw aspects of love and eroticism, and his words were honest, _real_ , but they were beautiful. He raised the idea that intimacy and eroticism can be both coarse and silken. Harsh and graceful.”

It’s fitting, Clarke thinks. It makes sense.

“It’s what I get from the piece, anyway,” Lexa adds after a few beats of silence as she continues to wander through the studio. “It’s what I get from most of your art. I think the way that you integrate the rawness of the human form with the softness of intimacy is very special.”

Clarke flushes, both at the praise and at the mere prospect of having her art so deeply analysed by someone so perceptive. “You said you freelance,” Clarke says, a swift change of subject to avoid any deeper analysis. “Do you work from home?”

“Yeah. I work from a little office in my apartment, mainly,” Lexa explains. 

“Do you like it?”

“What, working from home?” Lexa asks. At Clarke’s nod, she shrugs, gesturing dismissively. “It’s alright. I enjoy working alone, so that part isn’t so bad. It can feel quite suffocating to be living and working in the same place, though. It’s not great for my mental health. I’ve thought about leasing out an office space or something, some time over the next year if I can get around to it.”

“You could always use this space,” Clarke blurts before she can garner enough rationality to stop herself. “Like, I could make a spot for you. You could bring your stuff, and we could put a desk near the window, so you don’t get suffocated by turp fumes.”

Lexa is quiet then, and something unreadable crosses her features. Clarke recoils slightly.

“Is that too much? You can say no,” Clarke rushes out. “I just thought… well, I have all this space, and I don’t really need all of it.”

“No, it’s… it’s not too much. Not at all,” Lexa contends quickly. “It’s just— this is _your_ space, Clarke. It’s personal. I wouldn’t ever want to feel like I was intruding or invading.”

“I get lonely,” Clarke admits, rubbing a hand across her neck sheepishly. “I mean, we don’t even have to make it a thing. I could just set up a desk and you could come whenever you wanted. You can say no, but I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t one hundred percent sure. And if health and safety is your concern, I don’t use turps or mineral spirits that much, so you _probably_ won’t get seriously poisoned by any fumes.” 

A pregnant pause in time comes as Lexa deliberates, giving Clarke long enough to begin to question the wisdom of ever bringing the question up. 

“Okay,” Lexa yields, but holds up a finger in protest before Clarke can get too excited. “But only if you let me pay some of the rent.”

“Lexa, I’m not making you pay to spend time in my chemical infested art studio that you probably won’t be spending a quarter of as much time in as I do.”

“It’s the least I can do, Clarke,” Lexa insists, almost pleading. “Please. I’ll feel even more like I’m infringing if I don’t at least offer you something in return.”

“Your presence is the best thing you could offer me, Lexa,” Clarke coos dramatically, batting her eyelashes. Perpetually stubborn, Lexa doesn’t seem to give way to the act, only crossing her arms over her chest and sharpening her pointed look. Clarke sighs, raising her hands in defeat, before she gets an idea. “Okay. How about, you repay me by taking me out for dinner. Once a week.”

Lexa blinks, bug-eyed and flushed— almost balking, “Are you insinuating...”

“I’m not _insinuating_ anything. I’m just saying that if you’re so insistent on repaying me, I enjoy wine and Italian food,” Clarke says, finally dragging her gaze away from Lexa. It’s only then that she notices she’s been mindlessly tidying up the studio, as she peers down at a handful of dirty brushes and the armful of dirty jars she’s managed to collect. She throws the brushes into a bucket distractedly, dawdling over to the sink to wash out the jars as she peers over her shoulder to Lexa, who’s still glued to her spot. “Otherwise, it’s free. Take it or leave it.”

At the hint of a challenge, Lexa straightens up slightly, regulating her posture and boldening her gaze. “Okay,” she capitulates, as if throwing in her sword. “It’s a deal.”

**—**

They linger within those four walls for a while longer, falling into natural conversation around the trials of being a creative in New York, the tribulations of time, and how there is simultaneously too much and too little. They converse until the sun begins to sink into the horizon, a staggering encore to a ballad of a day, and Clarke and Lexa both become abruptly aware of just how much time has passed while they have basked in the mutual hedonism of each other's company. In a trice of realisation, Lexa jumps up from the spot she'd taken next to Clarke on the floor near the window, checking the time on her wrist and balking, apologising in a haste for the (much appreciated, on Clarke's end) overstay as Clarke walks her to the door of the studio.

(The sinking feeling residing in Clarke's stomach at the realisation that she cannot sit here with Lexa forever, soaking up her gladdening presence, is impossible to ignore.)

“Hold on, before you go,” Clarke says, following Lexa across the threshold out of her apartment. “The spare key is up here.” She feels Lexa’s eyes on her as she stands on her tiptoes, straining and searching blindly on top of the doorframe for the key, which Clarke is certain for a split second has been magically relocated.

Ever considerate, Lexa must see Clarke’s struggle as she begins to ask, “Do you need me to—”

“Aha!” Clarke yells out, triumphant as her hand finally lands on the metal key, hoisting it up in victory before dropping back down to a normal height and facing Lexa, offering up the piece of metal. “I’m not that short, Lexa. Never doubt me.”

“Why are you doing this?” Lexa asks, even as she takes the key from Clarke’s palm and slides it into the back pocket of her Levis. The question was inevitable.

A beat. Two. Three.

Before, “I’m being selfish,” Clarke says placidly, her tone absurdly levelled considering her apprehensive state and her less than placid train of thought. She allows the insoluble confession to hang in the air for a few beats before she elucidates, “I’m doing this because I want to spend time with you, Lexa.”

Green eyes bore demurely into blue. A defined throat bobs. Poise falters. Any still-standing walls on either end give way to the fleeting but fervent confession. 

Something about the admission is terrifying, on Clarke’s end. As though she is waving a white flag and letting Lexa in, after years of keeping herself locked away. As though light is beginning to seep through the cracks that have formed from fragmented tranquility and a lifetime of tribulation and aching.

“Is that okay?” 

In lieu of any verbal confirmation, with a quiver of a breath, reverent arms wrap around Clarke’s shoulders, pulling her into an embrace. Clarke folds into the hug once again as Lexa’s hand presses against her neck to tighten the hold, communicating a liminal sentiment— one unspoken but undisguised.

For the briefest of a moment, Clarke thinks that maybe, just maybe, she will not ache for the rest of her days.

* * *

_It’s hard to write about being happy because the older I get, I find that happiness is an extremely uneventful subject. And there would be no grand choirs to sing, no chorus could come in about two people, sitting doing nothing._

_The loneliness never left me; I always take it with me. But I can put it down in the pleasure of your company and there will be no grand choirs to sing; no chorus will come in; no ballad will be written. It will be entirely forgotten, and if tomorrow it’s all over at least we had it for a moment. Things seem so unstable, but for a moment we were able to be still._

_l.w._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here's the thing, this is actually just a super self-indulgent fic as someone who is an avid enjoyer of both art and literature (and clexa, lol) so i'm having a ball writing it, and it's an added (appreciated) bonus if any of you are enjoying reading it.
> 
> also, i made a tumblr. i don't know how many people use it anymore but if any of you are on there can find me at wanhedyke.tumblr.com ! send me messages or questions or something i'm lonely.  
>    
> next chapter: a day (or an evening) in the studio and the city. a fleeting glimpse into the past draws clarke and lexa closer.

**Author's Note:**

> this was just a short prologue to set the tone for the story and give a bit of background. there will be a 9 month time skip between now and the next chapter, just to let you know. this chapter was essentially a flashback, hence the use of past tense. not to worry though, things will very much pick back up where they left off. :)
> 
> next chapter: we get a glimpse into clarke’s life as an emerging artist back in the city as she attends the opening night of her newest exhibition, where she has an unexpected encounter. formalities ensue... somewhat.


End file.
